The Calm Before
by ArtemisMS
Summary: The Champion has fled Kirkwall, and a young mage is left to contemplate the ruins of his home and of his heart.


The night the Champion fled Kirkwall it began to rain.

There were so few of us left, so few of us still alive after it was all finished. First Enchanter Orsino was dead, killed by the Champion and his friends. The Knight-Commander was also slain. Both had been victims of magic gone wrong, or so the rumors were beginning to circulate. Most of the senior enchanters were gone. All of the mages and apprentices were dead.

I was the only one left.

I knelt down beside one of the bodies, the stone floor of the Gallows freezing cold against my knees, even through the wet material of my trousers and robe. Ella's vacant eyes stared back up at mine, her round face slack. Her skin had never been so pale.

She was one of the good ones. She told me once how she'd met the Champion, and he'd convinced her that the Circle was her home. There was talk of her being made Tranquil, but then Ser Alrik was found dead, and she was happy again. _I miss my parents_, she told me afterward. _But it isn't so bad here, is it?_

The rain fell began to fall harder, flicking against her eyes and filling her half-open mouth.

"You should have run away," I told her.

The sound of heavy boot steps made me lower my head, my eyes closing momentarily.

"You should head inside with the others," said the voice behind me. "You'll catch your death of cold out here."

"Yes, ser," I replied.

But I made no move to stand.

"She should be laid properly to rest. But there are no priests to see to her or any of the others." I heard him sigh, quietly, just barely over the sound of the rain. "And somehow, this has all fallen upon _my_ shoulders. Maker's breath, I can't believe this is happening again…"

His voice dropped at the last, as if I weren't supposed to hear that part.

"I don't agree with what he did," I said. I lifted my head finally, my eyes meeting his. "The apostate."

He looked surprised.

"I would not have imagined that you did," he replied.

We stared at one another for a moment, until finally he offered me his hand. I took it, allowing him to pull me to my feet. The rough, wet leather of his glove against my palm was oddly comforting.

I looked at him, his hand still in mine.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I blinked the rain from my eyes.

He frowned, his glove sliding free. "For what?"

"For what I did. For—everything. With Grace, and Thrask."

His eyes widened, then he sighed again, another heavy sigh.

"This has already been discussed. The Knight-Commander—for whatever her word is now worth—agreed to pardon you. And… you told me why you did what you did. Ultimately, the fault was my own."

We hadn't spoken of any of this since that initial interrogation. There, in my small cell, I admitted to him what I hadn't yet found the courage to admit to anyone else.

"Besides," he added wearily, "What is that in comparison to all of this?"

I let myself study his face as he gazed out onto the ruins of the Gallows courtyard. His eyes always looked so tired. Yet even in the rain, his clothing and armor splattered with blood, he was beautiful.

That was my secret: that I knew he was beautiful. I knew that others felt the same about him. But he _knew_ what I thought—what I felt.

After Grace died—after what I told him—he seemed to forget. The distance between us became cold again, because it was as it should be. Templar and mage.

His eyes met mine, and he frowned. He cleared his throat and looked away again.

His hands came up after a moment and unfastened the heavy cloak he was wearing. My shoulders bowed a little as he threw it over me, even pulling the hood over my head.

"Go and stay with the others," he said. "They've all gathered in the library, or what's left of it. There should be a fire going."

"Yes, ser," I said.

I started to turn away. Halfway down the steps, though, I couldn't resist pausing, the rain finally beginning to diminish.

I looked back over my shoulder.

"Will things change now, Ser Cullen?" I asked.

He looked at me.

"I don't know."

I nodded and turned away.

"Alain…" he added, "For what it's worth… I'm sorry, too."

I nodded again and continued down the steps, this time without looking back. He was sorry. We were all sorry. But I couldn't help feeling that he was the type of man who had spent his whole life being sorry. How could someone live like that—a life of nothing but fear and regret?

Maybe I was only just beginning to understand it.


End file.
